


Ugly Duckling

by Crumpled_Paper (LilyBlackthorn)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comfort/Angst, Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, Psychological Trauma, Teen John, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyBlackthorn/pseuds/Crumpled_Paper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since they were young, Mycroft loved calling Sherlock an idiot, but he didn't know that his little brother took his words seriously - Sherlock believes that he <i>is</i> an idiot. </p><p>Sherlock saw himself as useless and a disappointment to his family compared to his brother. Just like the ugly duckling in the story his mother used to read to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# The Ugly Duckling

### 

Sherlock Holmes never had anyone he can call a friend. All the children who wanted to befriend him were pushed away. Even if they clung stubbornly to him, they’ll eventually leave him. He was an eccentric little boy, who preferred to spend his time in the backyard of his home, digging up dead things. When he was ten, murders and the likes _fascinated_ him. There were times when he would beg Mr and Mrs Holmes to bring him to a crime scene like on the television. Of course, his parents refused, and Mycroft, his brother, would call him an idiot for demanding so ridiculous a thing. 

Mycroft, seven years his senior, possessed an intelligent mind. He managed to skip a grade, and excelled in almost anything he does. He had a keen interest in law, and their parents had no doubt he would one day end up being a lawyer or having a governmental profession. Mycroft wasn't the type to keep up with extracurricular activities saved for the ones obligatory for him to pass his grades. The lack of exercise made him turned out to be quite fat, a word he was sensitive of hearing, and which his little brother loved torturing him with. 

Initially, he shared a room with Sherlock but the day he turned thirteen, he was given a room for himself. Mrs Holmes decided to give Mycroft the attic room, which earned her a debate with Sherlock, who had always wanted the room since they moved there. His mother knew that arguing with Sherlock was pointless, and was somewhat amazed when Sherlock stood down and gave way to Mycroft. It was rare for Sherlock to stand down from _any_ argument. 

The truth was, Sherlock was content to finally have a bedroom to himself. No matter if he didn’t get the room he wanted, he was all too pleased to be separated from his rubbish big brother. He even helped remove all of Mycroft's belongings from the room, eager to only have his things in it, which weren’t much compared to Mycroft’s. 

Without Mycroft’s belongings, the room was left empty in most parts. But it didn’t take long for Sherlock to fill the gaps. In just within a few weeks, the room was filled with all sorts of things that weren’t all too pleasant to look at. In one corner was a desk he came to call "The Dissecting Table", where he often lay out cadavers of birds or squirrels. Mainly road-kills. He placed them in airtight containers and kept a record of the things he discovered and experimented on. Not only animals, but he also took samples from plants around the neighbourhood. 

Mycroft called the repulsive hobby of his ‘stupid’, like him. Sherlock would call him ‘fat’ in return, to upset Mycroft. Most of the time he’d ignored the insults though, for he was all too used to being insulted. Not just by Mycroft, but also by the children who saw him picking up dead things and stashing them away in a plastic bag. They were frightened of him, and most definitely thought him a madman. Not like he cared of what people thought of him. 

Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he actually believed that he was indeed an idiot, unlike his brother. That he was nothing but a disappointment in his family. The ugly duckling that should not had been born. His parents were respectable people with honourable jobs too. His mother was a mathematician. She even wrote and published a book Sherlock couldn’t understand, filled with formulas and scientific words which were hard to pronounce. 

Aside from the geniuses that were his older brother and mother, his father was perhaps the only other fool in the family. He keeps forgetting things and was always scolded by his mother. Still, he was a lecturer at the same university his mother taught at. Sherlock and Mycroft were told that was how they first met. Mrs Holmes is no longer a lecturer though. She gave it all up when Mycroft was born, and became a full-time housewife to this day, even if twenty-one years had passed. 

This year’s summer passed by too quickly for Sherlock’s liking and before he knew it, he was forced to attend school again. With the awful, dreadful, boring people. This year would mark his third year of secondary school, and he had no expectations whatsoever except wishing for it to end as soon as possible. He had been attending the same school for the first two years, but this year, his mother decided that it was best for him to change schools, on the excuse that this secondary school is closer to home and has a better reputation. Of course it has a better reputation - his genius of a brother attended it. His mother probably thought it would bring out the genius in him, like it did his brother. It's ridiculous, in Sherlock's opinion, because no matter how good a school is, if the student doesn't give his efforts, it's pointless. The student would still leave the school as brainless as he first came. And anyway, Mycroft was a natural-born genius. It wasn't the school that made him into one.

The school was a new ground for him, yet it was the same as any other schools. There were some students he recognised as being from his neighbourhood but whom he’d never spoken to. Some of them were probably the very children he scared off when he was younger, what with his bloody experiments and all. A smirk tugged at his lips when he remembered a time when a group of children scampered away as soon as they saw what he was holding: a rotten rabbit.

He’d deliberately asked his mother to drop him a bit late, as he wanted to arrive around the time when the students would be called into their classrooms for the roll-calls. That way he wouldn’t have to endure the time before class begins where everyone would try to introduce themselves to one another, without even thinking if the person wants to know them or not. It’s awkward, and Sherlock hates it. Why must everyone act so friendly on the first day of school? 

His watch said 8:35, and he knew he was five minutes late for the roll-call. Even so, Sherlock strolled casually into the class. The door was open. 

‘Ah, you must be Mr Holmes,’ said a man, obviously the teacher, who was leaning against his desk. He ticked off a name on his students’ list. ‘A bit late, aren’t we? Go on, take a seat.’

Quickly, Sherlock scanned the whole classroom and spotted an empty seat near the front. He almost groaned out loud. He hates sitting near the front. It’s the disadvantage of arriving late, he supposed. His eyes magnetised to the left, where two of his most hated enemies sat side by side. Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. He knew they were attending this school, and he'd expected they'd be in the same class. Sally giggled at something Philip said, and they both turned their heads to Sherlock. Sherlock pointedly ignored them. There was no use in paying attention to people like that, and he had no interest in knowing what they were saying. Though their expressions gave Sherlock a good idea how their conversation started: "Look, Freak's in our class this year." Instead of focusing on them, Sherlock let his eyes roam the classroom, taking in the dull environment. The walls were whitewashed and spotless - newly painted, but not done recently because the odour of the paint is too faint for it to be recent. A black clock hung just above the whiteboard. A few notice boards were on the walls too, three at the back wall and two on either sides of the whiteboard, but they were completely void of any notices. As if on cue, the teacher got up and pinned a paper on the notice board on the left. 

‘This is your class schedule, if you haven’t seen it already,’ the teacher said. ‘Most of you ought to have received a copy on your orientation day. For those who weren’t at the orientation, feel free to write it down or ask a friend to have it photocopied or something. Especially new students - you’re going to need it.’

Sherlock glanced at the schedule. He wasn’t at the orientation the other day. Not that he refused to go, but the day had coincided with the annual academic award ceremony of the university Mycroft is attending. It’s a day where awards are given to the campus’s brightest students of the year. Mycroft Holmes was obviously in the top-ten list. His mother was, naturally, beyond proud of her son’s achievements and had dragged Sherlock down to the campus. Sherlock wasn’t sure if she was even aware that it was also his orientation day. The schedule was posted on the school’s site, nonetheless, and Sherlock had a chance to go through it. It was how he knew the roll-call would be at 8:30. Maybe he should’ve printed it out. 

‘We’ll be deciding on the class reps tomorrow morning. There’s nothing heavy for you today, and I won’t be doing a one-by-one introductions. That'd be lame, wouldn't it?’ the teacher said with a smile. ‘So off you go then to your next class. Refer to your schedule as a guide. The class numbers and everything you need are on there.’

Students began shuffling out of their seats, making their way out. 

‘Oh yes, before that, choose yourself a locker, please! But only the ones in front of our classroom,’ the teacher called out to his students. 

Sherlock followed the stream of students, and stood for a moment in the corridor, trying to find an unoccupied locker. Most of them were already taken, and in all the rush, he can’t properly see all the lockers to see which ones were empty. There should be more than enough for all of them, seeing that the number of students in his class was quite small. 

‘Oi!’ a voice called out. ‘Oi, Holmes!’

Sherlock was startled to hear his name being called by another student on his first day of school. That was a first. He searched the horde and saw a short boy with dirty blond hair waving his hands cheerfully to him. He expertly wormed his way to the boy. 

‘This one’s empty,’ said the boy, opening a locker beside his. ‘You can have it.’

‘Thanks,’ Sherlock said simply, glad that his enemies’ lockers were at least ten lockers away from his. He took out the things he deemed necessary for the day - a notebook and a pen - before stuffing his bag into the locker and slamming it shut. 

‘I’m John Watson,’ the boy introduced himself, extending a hand with a benevolent smile on his face. 

Sherlock shook John’s hand and eyed the boy from head to toe, taking in the orderly way he was wearing his uniform. The shirt was buttoned up to the neck, complete with a properly tied tie. Thank goodness his jacket wasn’t buttoned. It would’ve looked dorky. The trousers were perfectly pressed too, and his shoes were clean, visibly new. While John Watson’s uniform was neat, Sherlock’s was the complete opposite.

He’d left the top two buttons open, and his tie had been left curling on his bed. He was never one to wear ties. They suffocate him. His jacket was unbuttoned too, but his shoes were far from clean. They were newly bought too, however the soles had mud caked to them, because Sherlock had taken an interest in a fallen nest this morning just before he climbed into the car. The soil was still soft and muddy from last night’s rain, and Sherlock had stepped right into it to pick up the bird’s nest. 

That was the reason he was five minutes late, actually. He’d calculated his time to arrive in class precisely at 8:30, but the bird nest incident messed up his timing. Living in a punctual family, he was trained to be on time. Everything he does has an invisible schedule, and seldom does he stray from a task at hand, especially when he’s completely focused on it. He would see to its very end that it’s done. Despite this, Sherlock has a remarkable ability of rapidly shifting his focus from one thing to another.

‘Sherlock Holmes, right? Can I call you Sherlock?’ John asked. Sherlock threw a pointed look at John, who let out a nervous laugh. ‘Mr Wells said your full name during the roll-call,’ John said. 

‘Oh.’ Obviously. 

‘You can call me John,’ John said, taking out a notebook a couple of pens. ‘Have you got yourself a schedule?’

‘No. I didn’t go to the orientation.’

‘No worries. You can share mine then,’ John said, taking out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it open and flattened it against his notebook. ‘Blimey. Maths is first. Room A206. Come on.’

Not sure of what to do or where to go, Sherlock thought it was best to follow the guy. Getting lost on his first day didn’t sound very appealing.

***

‘Say… you don’t happen to bring some extra cash, do you?’ John asked in a low voice. He and Sherlock were lining up for lunch, and the poor boy had only realised he’d left his wallet at home. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything but fished out his wallet. There were a good few extra quid, he observed. ‘I do.’

Sherlock waited for John to pick out his lunch and paid for them both. They picked a table at the end of the canteen. John literally slammed his lunch tray onto the table in frustration. ‘How can I be so careless? I'd probably starve to death for the rest of the day if it weren't for your help. Thanks.’

‘It was no problem,’ Sherlock said, putting down his own tray. And he actually meant it. It wasn’t a problem at all. 

‘I uh…’ John cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. ‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow.’ 

Sherlock raised a puzzled eyebrow at John’s flustered look. Was there something to be embarrassed of? The boy left his wallet at home and he lend his money so that he may buy his lunch. Nothing embarrassing. Or was there? Pushing the thoughts away, Sherlock unwrapped his sandwich’s packaging and took a large bite out of it. John was having pasta, and they ate wordlessly for a few minutes. 

Having swallowed another mouthful of pasta, John stopped and glanced across to the new friend he’d just made. Sherlock was undeniably not a talkative person, for they had barely exchanged much word the whole morning. And John didn’t see the boy talking to anyone else. Whatever questions John threw to him, Sherlock’s answers were incredibly short. John suspected social anxiety, but Sherlock doesn’t appear nervous at all. In fact, the way he held himself as he strolled into the class this morning, without a care in the world of his tardiness, spoke of the high amount of confidence he has. 

Sherlock merely prefers not to talk of irrelevant things, John concluded. 

‘So, where do you live?’ John asked, breaking the silence. 

Sherlock wasn’t looking at John, but to the table’s surface. For a moment, Sherlock gave the impression he was thinking hard about something, John’s question perhaps, but something was wrong about the way he was staring ahead. His eyes were glazed over, unblinking. He looked… dead.

‘H-Hey, Sherlock?’ 

Still no response. 

‘Sherlock!’ John tried again, this time frantically grabbing at Sherlock’s arm. 

The action successfully snapped Sherlock out from whatever it was he was in, because his eyes twitched and blinked rapidly a few times. He looked up at John. A single word escaped his mouth:

‘What?’

John heaved a heavy sigh of relieve, and slumped against the back of his chair for a few seconds. ‘Jesus, Sherlock. What the hell was that?’ he asked worriedly, leaning forward to Sherlock.

‘What?’ Sherlock repeated, looking utterly baffled by John’s question.

‘That!’ John exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his right hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock looked down to his uniform, as if expecting to find a spilled sauce or an ugly stain. 

‘No, I mean that…’ John struggled to find the right word. ‘…that daydreaming thing.’

‘Daydreaming?’ Sherlock asked. ‘What daydreaming?’

John rubbed the tip of his nose. Of course Sherlock didn’t realise he was out cold from the world. ‘I was asking you a question and suddenly you weren’t responding. Your eyes didn’t even blink! I thought you were… I-I dunno.’ 

And John honestly doesn’t know what to think of what just happened to his friend. Then Sherlock did something unexpected: he laughed. John watched as Sherlock’s shoulders shook with mirth. He was pathetically trying to muffle his laughter by covering his mouth with the back of his hand. 

‘What’s so funny?’ John demanded. Because what happened not minutes ago wasn’t funny. It was _disturbing_. 

Sherlock’s laughter ceased, but a smile was still there. ‘I’m sorry, just… your reaction. It’s funny.’

‘“Funny”, you say?’ John asked angrily. ‘It wasn’t funny, Sherlock. I thought you were gonna have a seizure or something!’

Sherlock looked at John grimly for a split second before he snorted with laughter once more. Tears were welling up in his eyes. 

‘Shut up, I’m serious!’ John shouted furiously, making a few students turned their heads towards their table. Sherlock finally stopped laughing and pursed his lips, looking thoughtfully across to a fuming John. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he began, surprising himself at how easy it felt to apologise to the boy. Apologising had always proved a difficulty with Sherlock. ‘I wasn’t trying to make fun of your concern. It’s just that… you surprised me.’

John had torn his gaze away, but now he looked at Sherlock again. There was something in Sherlock’s tone of voice that caught his attention. 

‘No one other than my parents ever tried to snap me out of it. Usually when I’m like that, people would freak out and run away from me, no matter if they knew me or not. I have no idea why you attempted to help me - probably because you’re an idiot, but more likely because you don't know me. You evidently just transferred into this school, like me, because you had to refer to the schedule - old students wouldn't need to. And you didn't just transferred schools. You've only recently moved into the area as well. I don't mean to sound conceited but everyone our age living in the area would've heard of me. Even the ones who'd just moved here would have. They have a habit of warning one another about me. Sooner or later you’ll probably receive warnings from other students to stay away from me. They’ll either say I’m a freak or a psychopath. Balance of probability is that either Sally Donovan or Phillip Anderson from our class will warn you first. Or maybe both of them simultaneously, actually. They were the ones who warned all the children in our neighbourhood to keep a distance from me, and given that they looked into our direction not three seconds ago, the chance of them warning you is mostly likely sooner than later.’ 

John was speechless at the monotonous way Sherlock spoke. He didn't even pause for breath! Sherlock sounded like a machine - a robot, reciting a speech programmed into it, yet they were honest words. Cold and unfeeling, yet honest - so honest, that it sounded inhuman. Including the blatant insults. 

‘A… “psychopath”?’ John asked, finally finding his voice. 

Sherlock shrugged, tossing his sandwich packaging onto John’s tray. ‘It’s what everyone thinks of me, no matter how many times I tried correcting them. I’m a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath,’ Sherlock answered casually. 

‘For goodness sake, Sherlock, how can you let them call you that?’ John asked, not quite believing that Sherlock had somewhat proudly called himself a “high-functioning sociopath”. 

‘Why do you sound so upset?’ Sherlock asked. 

John scoffed in disbelief as he stood up. ‘Why aren’t you? How can you let people call you such rude names?’

Choosing to ignore John’s words, Sherlock trailed along behind John and watched as a woman took away John’s tray at the tray disposal station. Then they turned towards the canteen’s exit. Sucking on his chocolate milk, Sherlock watched John’s tensed shoulders as they reached the staircases. John was clearly upset. Sherlock doesn't understand why the boy would be upset over what people were calling him. What does it matter to him? Also, why bother being upset over something that is true? He _is_ a psychopath. Well, a high-functioning sociopath.

‘Damn,’ John cursed suddenly, stopping on the first flight of stairs. He had the schedule in his hand. ‘Can you believe this? We’ll have to climb three floors up for the lab, and right after we’ve had our lunch too. They’re killing us,’ John whined. 

Sherlock quirked a smile at the complaint but said nothing as they climbs up the stairs. Thankfully many students were still down in the canteen. It was only the first day of school, after all, and many were blissfully ignoring the rules, knowing they’d get away with anything on the first day. Finally reaching the third floor, the two was a panting mess and beads of sweat could be felt on their foreheads. 

‘Damn, that was… damn Chemistry,’ John cursed under his breath. 

Sherlock sniggered. John was evidently not accustomed to vigorous exercise. Like Mycroft.

‘Come on, I think it’s just at the end of the corridor,’ John said breathlessly, _averting_ his gaze from Sherlock when they both looked up. 

As John walked away, Sherlock didn’t move. He cursed inwardly at himself for not realising it earlier. _Stupid!_ There were only two possible reasons for John's distress from the point they left the canteen. First being that John was upset over what people were calling him, which doesn't make sense, because why would he concern himself over what people were calling Sherlock as? The second being that _frozen state_ he fell into. John appeared shaken by it. Perhaps he still is, and it's what weighing on his mind. _Damn._ Will he need to apologise again? 

‘John, listen, what happened in the canteen…’

‘It’s fine, Sherlock. Come on, the lab’s just over…’

‘No, listen to me,’ Sherlock interjected firmly. ‘It's upsetting you, and you need to understand.' 

John crossed the distance between them. ‘Who says I'm upset?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the side. 'Your body language - you're too easy to read. For one thing, ever since we left the canteen, scratch that, the _table_ , you refuse to make eye-contact. And the way you walk, it's stiff compared to how you normally walk - suggesting anxiety. Not to mention your tone of voice.'

John looked down at his legs. The way he walked... was stiff? He didn't even notice that. And it's true that he felt awkward to look directly at Sherlock. 

'I'm guessing you're bothered by what happened, specifically when I went...' 

'Fine, you're right,' John said, not giving time for Sherlock to finish his sentence. He finally locked eyes with Sherlock. 'You're bloody right. I was... _am_ , bothered by what happened, Sherlock. You have no idea how frightened I was when you went stiff as hell! I didn't want to say this, but I once saw a man going like that and the next thing I knew, he was foaming at the mouth and died!' 

Sherlock swallowed a thick lump as he listened to the intense way John was speaking. It made him realise why John took it so seriously earlier. It had caused an unpleasant memory to resurface - he didn't want to see a repeat of it. 'I don't mean to frighten you...' Sherlock began carefully. '...but you should know that there are times when I would slip into that… that _state_ you found me in. And I assure you I'm not suffering from any kinds of illness. It only happens when I struggle to remember something.’

John crossed his arms. ‘You mean you’d daydream whenever you try to remember?’

Sherlock let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I’d prefer it if you not call it “daydreaming”. I call it my ‘mind palace’.’

‘Sorry, your what?’

‘Mind palace,’ Sherlock repeated, as he started towards the lab. John followed. ‘It’s a memory technique where you map out your memory to a certain place in your mind. It doesn’t have to be a real place; it can be completely fictional, though a real one is more practical. It’s a very useful method. You’ll never forget a thing.’

John stopped. ‘So-sorry, you’re saying you have this… mental map of a place in your mind, where you deposit… memories in them?’

‘Exactly,’ Sherlock said, also stopping. ‘Like a hard drive on a computer. I just have to find my way back to where I stashed them. To do so requires a high concentration though, which explains why...’

‘…why you were like that,’ John continued for him. 'You literally mute the world around you.'

‘I have to. How else am I supposed to enter it? I thought it’s better if I explain it to you before you get any wrong ideas about me.’

‘Actually, Sherlock, I _did_ get the wrong idea about you. I really thought you were suffering from a bloody illness, for Christ’s sake! And don’t you think it’s more sensible to enter that mind palace of yours when you’re alone?’ John said irately as they reach the lab door. He stopped abruptly, his hand resting on the door handle. ‘Wait, do you do it in class too?’

Sherlock paused and stared at John. ‘Yes,’ he answered dumbly. 

‘Jesus,’ John muttered under his breath, pushing the door open. A blast of cool air greeted them as they stepped into the Chemistry lab. ‘What was it that you were thinking so hard of, anyway?’ John asked curiously.

‘Nothing of importance,’ Sherlock replied, and it was a lie.


	2. Chapter 2

# Misunderstandings

### 

It was in the middle of summer when John first laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes. 

It was a particularly warm evening, and John was cursing the broken air conditioner of his grandparents’ house. Try as he might, the damn thing wouldn’t work and he’d gone outside in search for a cooler spot. The breezy night air gave him some relieve, though his neck and hands remained balmy with sweat. He paced back and forth under the little tree on the front lawn and stopped when he noticed a movement at the window of the house opposite. 

Their neighbour wasn’t home, and the moonless night made it difficult to see. At first he was alarmed, thinking it was a burglar trying to break in, but then realised that what he was seeing was really just a peeping tom. Judging by the height, John assumed it was someone his age. A boy, probably, with that mass of curly hair. John knew, and the boy knew, that they were spying on each other, but both made no attempt to conceal themselves. What was the point? The inky night provided more than enough cover for them. 

This went on for a couple of nights, and on the third, there were no signs of him anymore. Until summer ended. 

John recognised the curly hair the moment Sherlock stepped into the classroom. And the milky-white face. The paleness of his skin had made Sherlock’s face stood out from the dark that night, but it was featureless. Now John could see the clear blue eyes and a set of lips that rarely ever smiles. 

Given Sherlock’s offensive hobby of peeking through his neighbours’ flimsy curtains, John had imagined that his new friend would be different, but not _that_ different. He wasn’t expecting the maddening habits, and it was a miracle that he survived the past few days being around Sherlock. 

Never mind that “memory palace” of his (which, by the way, after a little research, turns out to be a neat memorization technique called “The Method of Loci”), John found the most frustrating being his astonishing gift of not listening to others. He’d simply mute him out unless the topic was appealing enough. There were a good many times when John found himself being in a one-sided conversation. He’d go, “Oh, you were saying something?” or merely a “What?” as if he’d only just noticed that John was there. 

Nevertheless, apart from the annoying quirks, John found that Sherlock was strangely likeable in some ways. Perhaps it was the way Sherlock simply blurted out his opinions without thinking. He came to respect that part of Sherlock’s personality. It is human nature not to reveal their true colours until much later, but Sherlock was uncaring of what effects his words would have on people, including the ones he’d never met before. 

Frankly though, there were times when John rather not hear some of his opinions upon certain subjects.

***

Once the lunch bell goes off, John shoved his books into his bag and twisted around to see that the seat at the far back was already empty - Sherlock had left him behind. Again. John grumbled when he failed to find his friend in the loos or at the lockers. Eventually he abandoned the search and assumed that Sherlock was probably skipping lunch, because he couldn’t find him in the canteen either.

He joined the queue, thankful that it wasn’t very long, when a girl’s voice came from behind him. It was Sally Donovan. ‘Hey John,’ she said, flashing her perfect white teeth. ‘Where’s Sherlock?’ 

‘Sally,’ John said, giving her a small smile. ‘Uh, dunno. He left early.’

‘He’s always like that. God knows where he is,’ Sally said, looking around them as the line moved forward. 

‘Yeah…’

‘Well, if you want, you can sit with us,’ she said cheerfully, as they both picked up an empty tray. ‘I’m sitting with Philip and a few others from the class.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ John replied, picking up a carton of milk and putting it onto the tray. He eyed the meat and the green mush which might have been broccolis. 

‘I can’t imagine how boring it must’ve been for you to be stuck every day with that _freak_ ,’ Sally said, emphasising on the very last word. 

Punching a girl had never been on his list, but at the moment, it was a tempting thought. Really, was it so hard to call Sherlock by his name instead of a “freak”? John took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves by gripping onto his tray a tad harder. Luckily, she had changed the topic as they picked out their lunch lest John might have dumped the beans on her. 

Sally led him to a table where their classmates sat. He’d had the chance to get to know them all during classes, and Sherlock had helped him point out the name of everyone he knew.

He took the seat between Sally and a chubby boy who was already halfway through his lunch. ‘Hey, Mike.’

The boy grinned, showing a mouthful of half-chewed food, which wasn’t exactly pleasant to look at. ‘John,’ he said, sliding to the side a bit to allow John access to the empty chair beside his. ‘Sit down, mate.’

John gave him a polite nod and sat as everyone resumed their conversations. He wasn’t paying attention to any of them, and was contently digging into his lunch in silence. He was drawing a list in his mind of Sherlock’s possible whereabouts when Sally tapped him on the arm. 

‘So how can you stick around with him?’ she asked. 

John blinked owlishly, looking from Sally to Phillip, who were also staring at him. ‘Sorry, who?’

Sally rolled her eyes. ‘I thought you were listening, John. We’re talking about Sherlock?’

‘W-well, what about him?’ John asked, stabbing his fork into his potatoes. 

‘Don’t you find him weird?’ Phillip asked. ‘I mean, you looked fine with being around him.’

He didn’t like the way the conversation was plunging into, and felt as if he was shackled to the table, unable to escape. ‘I uh…’ he cleared his throat. ‘Yes, he is quite _odd_ in his ways, but I don’t really mind,’ John answered uncomfortably. 

‘I heard that even his mother couldn’t stand him.’

‘Really?’ John asked, desperately hoping Sally would drop the subject. 

‘Really,’ Sally said, munching on her carrot stick. ‘Do you know what his hobby was when he was younger? He used to scavenge for carcasses around the neighbourhood - scared the wits out of us. He’d pick those poor things up with his bare hands and thrust them into a plastic bag…’

‘Ugh, Sally, could you please? We are trying to eat here,’ a girl sitting at the end of the table said, as she held a spoonful of veggies mid-air, looking disgusted. Mike had paused too, John noticed. 

Sally ignored her and continued. ‘And he’d bring them home, and cut them up to see their insides for _fun_.’

John wasn’t sure if he should believe her. Sherlock did appear to have an ardent interest in all things science. ‘Is that… is that true?’ 

‘Everyone living ‘round here knows the little psychopath,’ Philip said. ‘Heck, some are traumatised by him.’

But even if Sherlock did those things, John thought, what does it matter now? ‘Does he, um, do it still?’ 

‘Who knows? We don’t see him picking up dead stuff ‘nymore since we were like, twelve,’ Sally said with a look of repulsion. ‘He found some other interest, I suppose.’

‘I’ve only just moved here,’ John said, ‘so you guys know about him more than I do, but I really don’t mind about all those… all those things he did.’ 

‘We can’t really say we know him,’ Philip said with a shrug. ‘No one does. Yes, we’ve known him since we were kids, but apart from the fact that he’s a psychopath, we know nothing else.’

There it was again. That _bloody, unnecessary_ , word. ‘Oh, and why is that? Hm? Because you guys pushed him away without giving him a chance to fit in?’ John accused acidly. He’d had enough. 

‘Don’t take us the wrong way, John,’ Philip said, picking up the tone in John’s voice. ‘We never thought of…’

The words trailed off when Sally cut in. ‘Do you know why he doesn’t have friends?’ she asked, leaning forward to John. 

John shook his head gently, aware that the whole table had fallen silent at her question. 

‘It’s because _he_ pushed them away,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter if you could stand him or not. No one decides to be a friend of Sherlock Holmes. It’s just the way it works with him - he believes that he doesn’t need friends. It wasn’t us who didn’t want to be his friends, well, initially at least - it’s him who _chose_ not to have any.’

Philip nodded sombrely. ‘Yeah, and you should’ve seen how he’d driven us off.’

John’s face dropped. _Sherlock… pushed them away? All of them?_ ‘But why would he do that?’ 

Philip shrugged again and poked at a pea on his plate with his fork till it rolled to the side. ‘We don’t know but it’s clear he hates having anyone called ‘friend’.’

If that’s true, then it wasn’t entirely their fault that Sherlock was friendless as he was. He’d thought that they were the ones who isolated Sherlock, not the other way around. 

‘You know, I’m surprised it’s taking him much longer with you,’ Sally said, interrupting John’s train of thoughts. ‘It’s almost the full week. Usually it wouldn’t take him more than a couple of days to push away anyone who tries to get close to him.’

‘Yeah, we knew this from our friends in his previous school: they said Sherlock once hit a boy so hard that the boy broke a few bones. He’d been bugging him for days - I guess he couldn’t stand it,’ Philip added. 

‘Do you see now?’ Sally said. ‘So don’t get us wrong for wanting you to stay away from him. It’s for your own good.’ 

‘Y-Yeah…’ John muttered, feeling hollow. 

Yes, he did see that - that Sherlock was closer as being a psychopath than a normal person. They’d laid out the points perfectly clear, thank you. But rejecting friendship… he didn’t understand that part. Supposing it was true, then why were they still friends? 

Was Sherlock putting on an _act_?

John frowned. The idea that Sherlock was faking his demeanour since they met sparked anger in him. It was as if they were standing at the edge of a cliff and Sherlock was just waiting for the right time to push him over the ledge, to end what seemed like a friendship between them. And John was letting him. 

However he didn’t know if Sally and Philip were telling the complete truth - in fact, Sherlock had been adamant that he let the two approaches him. And the fact that he’s mysteriously missing during lunch right now might have something to do with that. John nearly rolled his eyes at the image of Sherlock smugly watching him from afar, happy that his plan had gone perfectly well. 

Or Sherlock was really like what they described. Grisly experiments… attacking another… and refusing to have friends… are those the truths? 

And if they were, why would Sherlock wish him to know about them?

***

Sherlock was in the Holmes’ back garden, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he tried to take a good look at the nest he’d saved a few days ago. He’d deemed the thickest branch of the tallest tree the safest, and had been checking them every day after school to make sure they were still there unharmed. It was hard to hear, but when he listened carefully, tiny chirping of the fledglings inside could be heard.

Pleased, he returned inside through the kitchen door and found his mother at the island. Mrs Holmes was dumping a bowl of blueberries into a batter and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at a tray of biscuits she’d baked. 

‘Why are you baking?’ he asked uninterestedly. He snatched up a piece of biscuit closest to him and popped it into his mouth. His face crumpled at the taste. ‘God, this taste awful.’ 

Mrs Holmes gave a sigh. ‘Which is why I’m making muffins for you,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t like the flavour. It has cardamom in it.’

‘Cardamom?’ Sherlock looked at the pieces of round, white biscuits as if they were the vilest things on earth. ‘Why are you using spices in biscuits? No one would want to eat them.’

Mrs Holmes chuckled. ‘I don’t like them either but your father does. And you can use spices in biscuits too, you know.’

‘Of course he does,’ Sherlock said, filling a glass with water. His father was peculiar in that way; it seemed he always like things they don’t like. He preferred grape juice, when they all like apple, for instance. ‘Where’s daddy?’

‘In town. He’ll be back in an hour.’ Having mixed the batter with the rest of the ingredients, Mrs Holmes began to spoon them into the paper cups she’d arranged onto the baking tray.

‘Oh.’

‘How are the baby birds?’ Mrs Holmes asked, filling the second cup with batter. The juice from the blueberries had muddled the colour, tainting the otherwise brown mixture slightly purple.

‘They’re fine,’ he answered, before briskly leaving the kitchen. 

Sherlock trotted upstairs and slumped down heavily in his chair, not bothering to shut the door. He had a habit of not locking his bedroom door whenever he goes out, and even when he’s inside the room, it’s left ajar. The only time he’d lock his door was when his mother asked him to do so. He tapped his fingers on the desk, frowning when pencil shavings sticks clammily to them. 

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.  
His little “test” had gone flawlessly well and the result was just as he’d expected. 

Pulling out his phone from his pockets, he dialled a number he rarely ever dialled - it’s not even in his contact list. It was a wonder he cared enough to memorize it. It took four rings before it was finally picked up. The person was likely wondering who the caller was. He doubted Mycroft had him in his contact list. 

‘How very nice of you to call, little brother,’ came his brother’s smooth voice through the line. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Sherlock could practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

‘How do you know it’s me calling?’

‘Despite what you think of me, Sherlock, I do have you in my contacts. How is your first week of school going? Better than last year, I hope.’

Sherlock ignored the question. He stood up and went to the window, hating the pencil shavings on the desk. ‘I think you know why I called, Mycroft.’ 

‘Do I?’ his brother asked nonchalantly. 

‘You lied.’

‘Lied?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ Sherlock said irately. 

‘I don’t.’ 

Sherlock let long moments of silence passed between them, hoping his brother would drop the act, but it wasn’t working. 

‘I thought you promised you’d stop sending _them_ , Mycroft. I can take care of myself.’

Mycroft laughed. Oh how Sherlock wish he could punch his brother right then and there. ‘Even though I strongly disagree with the latter, I am keeping my promise in lowering the security over you, Sherlock.’

‘“Lowering”?’ Sherlock said furiously, his grip tightening on the phone. ‘You were supposed to stop completely.’

‘Going by your unpredictable behaviour, it’s better to have even a little security over you than none,’ Mycroft said. ‘But, believe me, I’m not employing any of the students in your school to watch over you anymore. I’m not one to break promises. I don’t think any kids are willing to do it anyway - not after you beat that boy to a pulp last time.’ 

‘You… you didn’t order anyone to…?’

‘I did not, but I’m assuming you are talking about John Watson?’

Sherlock’s frown returned. ‘So it was you who…’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions now. I told you I’m not using any of the students anymore. I have _other_ methods, you know.’

There were sounds of paper shifting in the background. 

‘John H. Watson,’ Mycroft said. ‘Nothing interesting about him. Clean records. His father was killed in Afghanistan. Lives with his grandparents in…’

‘Goodbye, Mycroft,’ Sherlock said coldly, and tapped the ‘End Call’ button. Lowering the phone, he stared at the now dark screen, feeling numb.

What a fool he was - he got everything completely wrong. 

He’d used Sally and Philip as “filters”, to see if John would be deterred by their exaggerating descriptions of him. It was a test, and John failed at it as he expected him to. Because, he thought, only those who were paid by his brother would return to him after hearing such disturbing imagery of him. Sherlock was too used to it. They’d come up to him with a forced smile on their faces, having no choice but to tolerate him under the guise of a friendly classmate when all they were thinking of was the money they’d receive in return. 

That was why he wasn't a bit surprised when John still sat with him in classes for the rest of the day earlier, as if nothing happened.

But now he knew that John Watson wasn’t working for his brother.

Sherlock had every reason to doubt John, because he knew that no one apart from his family ever accepted him for who he was, unless they’ve got a motive. 

So why did John stayed with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the lack of updates. I've been truly busy for the past couple of months that this story just slipped by me. Sorry again, if anyone had been waiting for an update. This one's a bit shorter than the last. Also, I won't put an update date this time, not when I can't keep to it.


	3. Chapter 3

# Confusion

### 

John followed the soft ticking of the clock, as the teacher took their attendance. Then his gaze returned to the empty seat in front of him. It was Friday, and there was no sign of Sherlock. He could be late again, but he’d been very early for the past few days. The only time he was ever late was on the first day. 

John heard the teacher calling Sherlock’s name but of course, there was no answer. The teacher’s eyes searched the room, and finally settled upon the empty seat. He shook his head and made a circle, marking Sherlock Holmes as absent.

***

‘Sherlock, dear, are you absolutely sure you’re all right?’ asked Mrs Holmes for the third time in the past ten minutes.

She gave a sigh as her son buried himself even further into the cocoon of his blanket, his curly hair protruding at the top. 

‘I know you’re not sick, young man,’ he heard his mother added, but it sounded amused instead of angry. 

There was a small movement, and Mrs Holmes watched as Sherlock slowly pulled himself upright, pushing the blanket away in the process. His hair was a mess, and dark rings had formed around his eyes. Half-lidded, he looked from her to his dissecting table, before finally resting on her once more. 

‘Thank God you didn’t touch anything this time,’ he said groggily. 

Mrs Holmes was standing by the foot of the bed, her arms crossed. She gave him a frown. ‘At what time _did_ you go to bed last night?’

He ignored the question. ‘I’m not going to school today.’

Mrs Holmes’s expression immediately softened at the words and she sat herself on the edge of the bed, turning her body towards her son. ‘And might I ask why?’ she asked gently. Her hand went to caress her son’s cheek, but retreated when Sherlock cocked his head away. 

‘I just don’t feel like it.’

She felt something warm pricking at the back of her eyes. ‘All right,’ she said, with a nod. ‘You don’t have to go today, but promise me you’ll come down for breakfast in a bit. You didn’t eat anything last night.’

He gave a small nod. She gave a small smile. 

‘Pancakes?’

He nodded again, before pulling the blanket over him again and turning away from her. 

Mrs Holmes sat and stared at her son’s back, finally letting the tears she’d been holding back to flood her eyes. She didn’t like it whenever Sherlock chooses to close himself off like this. Something was wrong, but she knew Sherlock wouldn’t tell them. He never did, no matter how bad it gets. They may be his parents, but she wouldn’t dare say that they knew their son as well as they should be. 

Before a sob could escape her, she left the bedroom, closing the door behind her even though she knew Sherlock didn’t like his bedroom door closed.

***

_Stupid sun._

Sherlock remained stationary under his blanket for the next five minutes, basking in the silence of his bedroom. His breathing was shallow and soundless. His eyes were unblinking as the morning light danced upon his face. Even when the rays prodded at his eyes, he kept them open until he couldn’t stand it. White blinded his eyes for long moments as he rubbed at them with the heels of his hands. With a low grunt, he sat up again and looked at the clock. It was 8:55. 

With unhurried steps, he went to the bathroom and took a quick shower, before dressing as quickly. As he dried off his hair with a towel, he walked over to the dissecting table. The whole surface was almost completely covered with pieces of papers littered with notes and sketches of various amoebas and cells he saw under the microscope last night. He’d been observing a few samples of dirt he collected from the garden and the streets for hours, and they are now kept away in labelled jars upon the shelves. 

The night had bled into morning by the time he finished, and apart from sleep, it resulted in him skipping dinner. Not that he wanted to eat anything anyway. He found years ago that having food in his system was not good for thinking, because it slows him down. The digesting was probably to be blamed. Actually, the experiment served no real purpose. As was with his previous experiments, it was fun, and might prove useful in the future, but really, it was just a form of distraction. It was to keep his mind from going back to think about John Watson. 

John H. Watson. The boy was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and it frustrated him. His mind was trained to solve a problem when one is presented before him, and he would do whatever it takes to find a solution - no matter how complicated it was. The solution to this problem, was of course, simple: ask John directly. This morning, he had contemplated of going to school, find John, make him spill the truth and then shove him away without ever speaking to him again. He’d done that many times before to every single student that Mycroft bribed to watch over him, that it’s practically a well-versed routine. Except for that one last time with Tom Simpkins. He’d taken the liberty in punching that one. 

Yes, he can definitely do such a thing to this annoying bugger named John Watson, but whenever he thinks of it, his stomach would go all knotted up and twisting to the point he felt like berating himself for feeling it. He recognised the feeling as fear, but he doesn’t understand what exactly is making him feel it. Just what the hell was it that he was so scared of, for God’s sakes? 

It was frustrating, confusing and unnerving all at once. He hated that he didn’t know what was causing them - these chemical reactions within his body - and the fact that he was avoiding John for answers was beyond his comprehension. It wasn’t like him at all to bind himself to such emotions and let them take control of his actions. 

He’d learnt that they would only end up hurting him.

***

‘You want some syrup with that?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

The pancakes were thick and fluffy, and they towered on his plate. They were too sweet, because his mother had mixed in more than enough chocolate chips in them, but he didn’t complain. One of them was slightly burnt too, but he didn’t complain on that either. 

There were dirty dishes in the sink, he noticed, but instead of taking care of them, his mother had left the stove, wiped her hands on a teacloth and took the seat across him at the dining table. A glass of water sat in front of her, untouched. 

The only sound was the occasional clinking of his spoon against his plate, in his attempt to eat at least half of the pancakes, even though he didn’t feel like eating at all. To pretend that he was enjoying the pancakes was a necessary step, he thought, in making her stop worrying about him. 

From the moment she left his bedroom earlier, he knew she’d been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, and he avoided from looking at them directly. He kept his eyes down and focused instead on his pancakes. Had Mycroft been there, he would’ve called him an idiot. An idiot, for not knowing how to deal with the situation.

Indeed, as always, Mycroft was right. Sherlock didn’t know what he was supposed to do whenever his mother cry, and it didn’t make it any easier when he was told that _he_ was the reason she was so upset. Mycroft once told him so, and somehow, he knew that was true. Something he did… something he’s _doing_ , saddens her, however he wasn’t able to see what it was. He was never good in dealing with his own emotions and feelings, so how was he expected to understand other people’s feelings?

He thought that life would be less complicated without emotions controlling it, so he always detaches himself from them. Even when he does feel something, he would often ignore it and push it away before it could have the chance to cloud his mind. It was easy for him, as it was for Mycroft. In fact, it was Mycroft who taught him that. His lessons had rather proved terribly useful for when other children threw stones and dirt at him back when he was in primary. 

But when it comes down to his family - his parents, it only serves as a predicament. He’d read a few stories in which the characters had loving parents and siblings. And around them, were friends who would be there for them through good and bad. He thought he was reading a fairytale, a sugar-coated life, because he couldn’t see that in reality. He supposed he had loving parents, but his relationship with Mycroft was nothing similar to what he read. The two of them cared about each other, in their own way, but he would never say that they ‘loved’ each other. It sounded wrong to his ears. And Mycroft would probably snort and laugh if he says that. 

But no matter how cold Mycroft was, Sherlock was able to see that he was better than him in handling people and situations. The ability to do that made him a better son, compared to him. While Mycroft would have tried to placate her, ask her what was wrong, _smile_ at her… he did none. Had Mycroft been there, he would’ve call him stupid and tried to soothe her and then-

‘Sherlock? Do you want to talk about school?’

He stabbed the fork deeper into the second pancake, and pulled off a large chunk of it. _Why do you want to talk about school, mummy? Is there something wrong with my new school?_ He shook his head. 

‘Sherlock dear, if you…’ she swallowed, her fingers around the full glass, ‘if there is something… you know we are here for you, right?’

‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. _I know that, but I don’t need anything from you._

‘We’re always here for you,’ she repeated, ‘so if there is something you want to-’ 

‘There isn’t,’ he interjected, finally looking up to meet her eyes. He kept the eye contact for one long moment, before returning to the plate. ‘You don’t have to worry about my new school or anything, mummy. Everything’s fine.’ And he wasn’t lying. 

‘I’m glad,’ she said, but she didn’t sound glad at all. She sounded mournful. 

_She doesn’t believe me, does she?_

Silence passed once more between them, and Sherlock suddenly felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room. 

‘Sherlock, your father and I talked about moving to…’

_No, no, no, no. Stop it, stop it, stop it, mummy! I’m doing fine! Why can’t you believe me? There’s no need for us to move away! That won’t solve anything. Can’t you see that? The problem is me. It’s_ me. _Your worthless, stupid, good for nothing son._

‘…it’s for your own good, you know, with-’

He had only realised that his breathing was becoming erratic like he was going to hyperventilate, and the next thing he knew, he had pushed his plate away and had stood up so abruptly that the chair almost tipped backwards. It must’ve startled his mother, because she stopped saying whatever it was she was saying, and was looking at him with wide eyes. A hand had flown to her chest. 

The room, his mother, her words, her eyes, everything, everything was suffocating him. So he ran. He ran upstairs and slammed the door shut behind him. 

He didn’t like seeing Mycroft, yet he wanted his brother to be there. He would provide answers - explanations, to everything that’s happening. Sherlock needed to hear him calling him an idiot for not being able to see what’s hurting the people around him.

***

John was still putting away his books into his locker, despite that the final bell rang ten minutes ago. Students rushed past him, eager to return home for the weekend. As he tugged on his tie to loosen it, a heavy hand slapped onto his shoulder, making him turn around.

‘Mike.’

‘Wanna walk home together? Our house’s in the same direction, isn’t it?’ Mike asked cheerfully.

John gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to stop off somewhere first. Next time?’

‘Sure, yeah,’ Mike said, looking slightly disappointed. ‘’Bye, then. See you on Monday.’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

John shut his locker, and his eyes fell onto the locker beside his. When an image of curly hair flashed in his mind, he slung his bag over his shoulder and started for the exit.

***

He walked down the street, his eyebrows rising at the beautiful houses that lined the whole of it. It was definitely a better set of houses compared to the ones on his street.

‘Twenty-two… twenty-two…’ he chanted under his breath, as he tried to look at the house numbers. 

Most were either faded, or hidden by stupid bushes and pot plants, but he didn’t complain. His own house number had had ivies curling over them. An image of a house from a long time ago emerged in his mind and he promptly pushed it far back into the dark corners, where they belonged. He needed to find number twenty-two. 

He saw number nineteen not a minute ago, so he must be close. He stopped dead, when he reached a numberless house.

It had red brick walls separating its front garden from the street’s pavement. The walls of the house were a dull red, and the white wooden frames of its windows were a great contrast. A few rectangular slabs created a path leading up towards the steps of the patio. They cut through the plain front garden, where a bright green garden hose was left curling on the grass just to the left of the steps. In front of the hose, was a large hole that was dug deep enough to bury a dog. 

But none of these was the reason he stopped. The house had no number, but he knew it was number twenty-two. Because when he looked up, one of its windows had a yellow smiley face sprayed onto its pane.

***

Mr Holmes turned off the engine and saw that it was just a little after school. He wanted to pick up Sherlock, but received a call from his mother saying that Sherlock had refused to go again. It wasn’t unusual for his youngest son to behave this way, and he knew it was because something was weighing on his mind.

Even though he wouldn’t open up to them, Sherlock was surprisingly expressive with his older brother. It was through Mycroft that they knew Sherlock constantly needs time and place where he can be alone, away from other people, because staying around them mentally tires him out. It had sounded odd, but he’d heard of such a thing before, so he never argues whenever Sherlock refuse to go school. 

They never pressed Sherlock for answers because forcing him to explain something he didn’t want to would only put unnecessary pressure on their son, and they didn’t want that. As his parents though, they wished that Sherlock would be more open to them. They had tried to show that they were there for him, but Sherlock didn’t seem to acknowledge this. He never turns to them for help, going instead to Mycroft. 

Despite their quarrels, they saw that Sherlock needed Mycroft. Almost everything he did, he did them with Mycroft alongside him, guiding him. They could see a bond between the two brothers, a bond that was nonexistent between Sherlock and them. They were disappointed in themselves for failing to be the ones Sherlock could rely on. 

After Mycroft left, he’d been even quieter than he was before. It worried them, however Sherlock never gave any signs he was being bullied or abused at school. If anything, Sherlock was as brilliant as his brother was in his studies. Like Mycroft, he was a quick-learner. He remained at the top of his grades in every single subject he took, but he didn’t understand why Sherlock didn’t seem very happy with the fact. Whenever his report cards came around, he would try to hide them instead of proudly showing them. 

Their son was different, yes, but they accepted him for who he was. Which was why he didn’t give a damn whenever Sherlock brought back carcasses and cut them apart with a smile on his face or when the neighbours gave him looks for allowing his son to do such things. 

He skirted around the car to get the shopping in the boot, smiling at the image of his son curled up in his bed, sulking and refusing to eat breakfast this morning. But his wife told him she managed to make Sherlock came down for some pancakes and had sent him up some food for lunch. She didn’t know if he had eaten any of it though. Humming a tune to himself, Mr Holmes took out two bags of shopping, and closed the car boot. His keys jingled in his hands as he walked up towards the entrance, but his pace died upon seeing someone standing at the front door. 

A boy with sandy brown hair and wearing a uniform similar to his son’s stood with his hand on the knocker. He watched as the boy’s hand left the knocker, reached for it again, before resting by his side once more. He was hesitating. 

Balancing the shopping carefully in his arms, he crossed the small garden and at the bottom of the steps, he cleared his throat loudly. It got the boy’s attention, who spun around with a surprise look and a tint of red dusting his cheeks, as if he’d been caught in an embarrassing act. 

‘Hello,’ he greeted, with a smile. He was suspicious as to what someone from his son’s school was doing on their front door, but that was no excuse to be rude. It better not be one of those scums who threw pebbles at Sherlock’s window a week ago though. ‘May I help you?’ he asked. 

‘Y-yes, sir, sorry,’ answered the boy clumsily, looking from the door and to him. ‘I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?’ 

Instead of answering the question, Mr Holmes eyed him curiously. ‘Are you from school?’ The answer was obvious, but he felt like asking it anyway. 

‘Sorry, yes,’ John said, with a short, nervous laugh. If he was talking to Mr Holmes, the man had every right to be wary of him. He assumed Sherlock seldom had visitors. ‘I’m his classmate, John Watson. Is he- that is, does he lives here?’ 

Mr Holmes’s eyebrows flew up at the statement, because no children, _no one_ , had ever come up to their house and admit that they’re Sherlock’s classmate. ‘He does - I’m Mr Holmes.’ 

‘Pleasure to meet you, sir.’ John extended a hand but realised it was stupid because the man had armfuls of shopping. He let it dropped to his side awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry for dropping by like this so suddenly, but he didn’t come to school today. I’m just wondering if Sherlock’s all right.’

Mr Holmes nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see,’ he said, offering John a kind smile. 

John let him bypass for the door, and heard a set of keys jingling noisily. He frowned though, when he saw that there was no way the man would be able unlock the door himself while carrying those shopping. 

‘Let me help,’ he offered.

‘Please,’ said Mr Holmes, allowing John to take the keys from his hand. ‘The largest one. My wife is home, but I don’t want to trouble her.’

John found it, and quickly inserted it into the keyhole. There was a loud clack when he twisted it, and the heavy door opened to reveal a front hall.

‘So you are here to visit him, are you?’ Mr Holmes asked, as John held the door open for him. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘Uh, yes, sir. The teacher said that he’s not feeling very well,’ John replied, as the man struggled to keep the bags from slipping off his grips. 

He heard Mr Holmes gave a small chuckle at his answer, but John didn’t know what was so amusing. 

‘Come on in.’

‘Thanks.’

Stepping onto the wooden flooring, John took in the elegant and simple décor of the front hall’s design. The walls were painted olive green with dark brown wooden panelling. There was an L-shaped staircase leading upstairs and a bookshelf filled with thick volumes stood solitarily at the bottom of it, just beside the banisters. John thought it was rather an odd choice of furniture to be placed at the entrance, but then again, it _was_ Sherlock’s house. 

Mr Holmes disappeared through a hallway, leaving John alone. Truthfully, John felt bad for intruding in such a way, and it was half the reason why he’d been hesitating earlier. The other half was that he worries of what Sherlock would think of this unexpected visit. He began to wonder if this was a good idea after all. He even went so far as to search for Mr Wells in the teacher’s office to acquire Sherlock’s address and the reason he was absent. 

‘Hello,’ said a gentle voice, grabbing his attention. A woman in her late thirties emerged, alone, from the hallway that Mr Holmes had gone through. ‘I’m told you’re Sherlock’s classmate?’ she added, with an unwavering smile on her face. She was smiling, yes, but her eyes weren’t. They looked… sad. 

‘Hello, yes. You must be Mrs Holmes,’ he said, reflecting her smile while extending a hand to her. ‘I’m John Watson. Pleasure to meet you.’

‘What lovely manners,’ she said adoringly, her eyes slightly brighter. ‘Sherlock didn’t tell me he was expecting a classmate.’ 

‘Well, actually, I came here on my own.’

That seemed to surprise her, because her eyes widened a bit. 

‘And I hope I’m not intruding on anything.’

She blinked. ‘Oh, no, no! Of course not, dear. Please, just go right up. His bedroom is at the end of the corridor.’

He thanked her, wondering if they were really Sherlock’s parents. They were completely different than the distant, moody guy he met at school. He had expected grim looking parents, not cheerful like them. In fact, they looked… ordinary. 

The only thing that confirmed that they were indeed his parents was the photos. The walls downstairs had been void of them, but upon reaching the second floor, a few decorated the otherwise empty walls. John stopped in front of one. In it was a young boy with dark curly hair, standing side by side with a taller boy with equally dark hair, but not curly. Both were scowling, clearly not wanting to be in the photo. He snorted, imagining a young Sherlock fighting and throwing tantrums before losing the battle and agreeing to have the photo taken. He wondered who the other one was. His brother?

‘What are you doing here?’

John’s head snapped around. There stood Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, with his arms crossed. His hair was unkempt, and he was merely wearing a pair of black shorts that shows his long, sinewy legs and a grey T-shirt a few sizes too large for him. John had been so absorbed in examining the photos that he didn’t notice Sherlock opening the door. Or has it been open all along?

‘I uh… I just wanted to check how you’re doing,’ he replied awkwardly. ‘Mr Wells said your mother called in for a leave.’ He didn’t look like he was sick or anything though. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Obviously, as you can see, I’m fine. In fact, never better. Seeing you here though…’ he let the words trailed off, sauntering back into his bedroom. 

John frowned at the very suggestive words. _Seeing me here what?_ He crossed the landing towards Sherlock’s bedroom, and entered it, ignoring the lack of invitation. He found Sherlock sitting at his desk, hunched over a microscope. Pencil shavings were scattered all around the microscope, mixing together with rubber dusts. A few beakers, filled with god-knows-what sat by his feet on the floor, because there was no space left on the desk what with the stacks of papers and shockingly, _food. What the hell?_

He then gawked at the state of the rest of the room. Not because they were as much as a mess as the desk was, but because they were beyond _neat_. Sherlock’s bed was located by a window on the other side of the room, and there were two bookshelves in the walls, filled, but not completely. Sherlock’s laptop was sitting on his bed, open and displaying the desktop. It seemed that the desk in the corner was the only untidy spot, like someone had been cleaning the whole room, but left the desk untouched. Perhaps that was indeed the case. 

Just beside Sherlock was another window, where the smiley face remained smiling. 

‘I do hope you’re thinking about leaving,’ he heard Sherlock said. 

John threw him a look. ‘Could you stop being so rude?’ He was used to Sherlock’s rude remarks, but it’s only been five days since he first met Sherlock, so maybe he wasn’t that used to it. Not yet. 

‘Do you know how much trouble I went to in searching for your house? Luckily that guy there,’ he said, pointing to the smiley face on the windowpane, ‘was kind enough to point it out for me. And thanks to you, I guess, for having told me that you hated your window so much that you sprayed paint on it.’ 

Sherlock zoomed in into the specimen, noticing a few dark purplish dots amongst the sea of grey. He adjusted the knob for a clearer image. ‘I don’t care. You shouldn’t have come in the first place.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have,’ John threw back irately. It infuriated him that Sherlock wasn’t showing even an ounce of appreciation for his efforts. ‘I don’t know why I even bothered.’

‘Exactly.’ 

There was a long pause as John stared at Sherlock’s hunched back, letting the words sink in. Confusion marred his face. ‘Sorry, what?’

Sherlock suddenly twisted around to look at him, before standing to his full height. He was a few inches taller than John was, and with the bright light from the window behind him, he seemed to look even taller as he loomed before him. 

‘Exactly,’ Sherlock repeated, his voice a note lower. ‘Why did John Watson even bothered to come and visit Sherlock Holmes at all?’ 

‘I don’t und…’

‘No, you _do_ , but _I_ don’t.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘ _You_. I’m talking about you,’ Sherlock said slowly, grimly. He raised a hand in front of him, preventing John from saying anything.

‘You are _confusing_ me,’ he continued, with the same calculated tone. ‘Yesterday, I found out that you don’t work for my brother - and before you ask, yes, I have an older brother - so I don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to _act_ friendly with me.’ 

‘Wait a sec-’

‘I crossed out the idea that you were dared by someone, like Derek was last year, to see how long you’ll last with me, but not likely since you don’t seem the type to make friends easily, therefore unlikely you’ve got anyone close to play such a game with. It’s a new school, new environment. So answer this: why go out of your way to visit me? Why can’t you just ignore me like everyone else does? And oh please don’t look at me like that - I know you know that it’s a _lot_ easier for the both of us if you do that.’

As always, Sherlock had been speaking so fast that he didn’t give a chance for John to butt in. And every word was spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as if he was reciting a paragraph from a textbook to him. They were _hurtful_ words. Sherlock’s words were painful to swallow, and John could only continue to stare at the boy in front of him. 

‘I think it’s better if you leave now, _Watson_ ,’ Sherlock added coldly, returning to his desk. 

A heavy silence filled the room, and John clenched his hands into tight fists. John swallowed the bitter lump in his throat, feeling constricted. ‘You know, _Holmes_ ,’ he heard himself say croakily. ‘Your parents are nice people, but you? You, are the coldest, most heartless and ignorant bastard I’ve ever met.’ 

The body in the chair visibly froze, but John continued nonetheless. 

‘Seriously, “act”? _Act?_ You think I’m putting on a _fucking_ act?,’ he said, his face contorted in mock amazement at the sheer ignorance. ‘“Working for your brother?” I didn’t even know you had one. God damn it, have you ever heard of the word “care”, Sherlock? The word “friend”?’ His voice rose a bit at the end of the sentence, and he felt his face began to heat up from rage. 

‘I don’t know why the hell you refuse to have friends, and I know it’s only been five days, and we don’t know each other, but the least you could do is to have a little _faith_ in me. I guess what I’m going to say won’t make any difference to you, but I truly think of you as a friend. You’re right. It’s not easy for me to make friends, but I feel like I can be myself around you. I don’t have to pretend to be friendly or fucking smile all the time as if everything’s okay. Because my life is far from okay right now. My mum and sister are so far away from me and I can’t even… you know what? Forget it. Why am I telling you all this anyway? It’s not like you care.’

Out of breath, he looked at Sherlock’s tense shoulders. Sherlock remained frozen solid at his desk, a hand on his microscope, his eyes looking towards the blank wall in front of him. He waited for a response, an angry retort, but there were none. 

‘I don’t give a damn what they say about you, Sherlock. I truly don’t, but you obviously don’t believe that, do you?’

Sherlock then felt a breeze of cool air passing behind him, heard the sound of rapid footsteps going down the stairs, and finally, a loud slam of the front door. Only then did he released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, and allowed his sweaty hand to leave the microscope. 

John had left.


	4. Chapter 4

# Regrets

### 

Mrs Holmes wiped her hands off on a teacloth. It was eight in the morning, and still no sign of Sherlock coming down. Not wanting to shout so early in the morning, she went upstairs. Upon reaching Sherlock’s bedroom, however, she found it empty. His bed was left unmade (as usual), his laptop shut down and the lid closed and a book left opened. She left the room and was about to check the bathroom, when she noticed just from the corner of her eyes, that the usually dark narrow passage leading to the attic room – Mycroft’s room – had a soft glow. The passage had no light bulb so that could only mean the door was open. Sure enough, she found the door ajar, a bar of morning light slipping through. She went up the six steps she had not climbed in a long time, and knocked softly on the door. She received no reply (not that she was expecting one), so she pushed it open. 

The first thing she saw was Mycroft’s untouched bed on the other end of the room, and then Sherlock’s curly hair, his back to her. He was seated at the desk – Mycroft’s desk – that she’d so many times seen her eldest son sat at, reading, revising his notes and doing his homework. Oh how she missed him. It was slightly odd to find Sherlock there. 

‘Sherlock?’ she called softly, but her son didn’t respond to show that he’d heard her. So she tried again. 

‘Sherlock?’ Again, fruitless. 

At last, she came up to stand behind him. She saw that nothing had been touched at the desk; there was a fine layer of dust over it, and everything was just where Mycroft had last placed them at. She never touched them even when she cleaned up his room after he’d left. 

‘What are you doing in here?’ she asked softly, and came around him to look at his face. 

Sherlock, she realized, had his eyes closed and his hands flat against one another, placed just underneath his chin. _Oh no,_ she thought. That familiar pose. It was no wonder he didn’t hear her. 

‘Sherlock, dear, please listen to me. Can you hear me?’ she asked, her voice small yet firm.

She let out a sigh, knowing all too well that nothing she says will help. Nothing she yells would either. She could shake him off it, but knew from her many experiences that Sherlock would remain that way for a long time, sometimes hours, and will eventually comes out of it. She couldn’t quite understand it, but a doctor once told her that it was probably Sherlock’s way of blocking the world around him – some sort of meditation, perhaps – to think without interference. 

_There’s just too much noise around me. I can’t think,_ Sherlock once told them. _How can you?_

It was best to leave him alone. Breakfast could wait. 

‘Please come down soon. I’m preparing breakfast. Your father’s downstairs too.’ 

She doubted he heard her, but she said it anyway. She gave a gentle squeeze on Sherlock’s shoulder – she doesn’t know why she did it – and started for the door. 

‘I will,’ Sherlock suddenly said. 

It startled her, and she almost gasp loudly at the suddenness of it. His voice was just above a whisper, but to her, it sounded loud in the silence of the room. She wanted to say something, but found no words – what was she supposed to say, anyway? – so she left the room with a final glance at Sherlock’s back, feeling her lips twitching to smile.

***

Watery blue-grey eyes finally opened, finally seeing. His ears heard the soft click of the door shutting behind him. _Why must she always close the door when she leaves a room?_ he thought, feeling annoyed at her habit. The sun, he observed, was up. Last he saw, he’d been looking at a dark sky but now it was bright and filled with clouds floating by.

 _Too bright._ A few hours had passed, it seemed. 

Indeed, the clock showed that a full three hours had passed. Exactly at five, he’d left his bedroom and padded into Mycroft’s – the attic room he’d so wanted when he was younger – and sat in the dark, motionless. The only thing he touched was the chair he sat in. What was there to touch anyway? Mycroft’s room, aside from his reading materials, held nothing interesting in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Unlike his, Mycroft’s bedroom was too sanitized. The carpeted floors were so clean that Sherlock was tempted to spill coffee or splash paint just to see _something_ on it. And the part that wasn’t covered with carpet (the oak floorboards) was shiny and spotless. Sherlock’s had acid stains eating into the wood. The walls were wallpapered in prints of vertical lines running down the walls, a darker blue between lighter ones, while Sherlock’s was of complicated Victorian motifs, clay-coloured and lustre. He didn’t like seeing the perfectly straight lines like the one in Mycroft’s room, and neither did he liked looking at plain ones. So mother had chosen that for him, when they changed the wallpapers years ago. 

Mycroft’s desk too, was perfectly clear of any clutter. Books were arranged in orders, by authors and subjects, it seemed, while Sherlock’s were scattered by his desk, under the bed, and sometimes left carelessly on the floor. Sometimes they find their way back onto the shelves, but more often not, unless his mother was cleaning up. And this room certainly didn’t smell rancid or sour from a rotten meat or spilled acid. Neither does it have the occasional smell of antiseptics (for when Sherlock accidentally cuts his finger). 

A thin layer, he noticed, had begun to overlay upon the table’s surface – it seemed his mother doesn’t come in here often anymore. Sherlock knew, in the few months after Mycroft left for university, that she came into his room everyday despite that there was nothing to be cleaned and no laundry to be collected. He might be the first to enter after a few months. 

The only reason he came in here was because it was silent. Being at the very top of the house, any noise was effectively blocked out. He cannot hear the distant chatter of his parents downstairs nor can he hear the occasional sounds of cars passing by on the street. All was still and quiet up here, and it allows him to think. _Just_ think and nothing else. 

It was difficult for him to seek solace in his room anymore with his mother poking her head at almost every hour of the day nowadays. He still couldn’t figure out why she was asking stupid questions like if he was feeling all right or if he wanted some snacks. She knew the answer to both, yet she still asked them. It was bothersome, so he decided to come up here, not caring what she might think of him trespassing into her favourite son’s bedroom without permission. It’s her fault for asking all those questions. 

There was his father’s study and the basement, but his father didn’t like anyone else going in there and the basement was too damp. So he went for Mycroft’s bedroom in the end. He couldn’t sleep last night. After a few hours of tossing and turning, he finally stumbled out of bed and tiptoed silently into the attic room. The passage to Mycroft’s room was just at the end of his bedroom’s corridor, so it was a short trip without risking waking his parents up. 

And there, he sat in the dark, at the desk. He didn’t need the light. He didn’t need to see anything. His eyes closed and he let John Watson’s words float back into his mind. They had been taunting him for hours since his leaving and the reason he couldn’t sleep. 

_“…coldest, most heartless and ignorant bastard I’ve ever met.”_  
 _“You think I’m putting on a fucking act?”_  
 _“…the word “care”, Sherlock? The word “friend”?”_  
 _“…why the hell you refuse to have friends…”_  
 _“… faith in me.”_  
 _“I don’t give a damn what they say about you, Sherlock.”_  
 _“…I truly think of you as a friend.”_

They replayed themselves again and again, ceaselessly, and he couldn’t really understand why his mind decided to _save_ them in such a vivid condition. He tried blurring them out, deleting them, but they remained stubbornly crystal clear, as if they were important for him to think about. So he thought about them, just to pass the time. 

He’d been called “cold” or “heartless” or “ignorant” many times before, yet the ones coming from John’s mouth didn’t go away. In fact, he felt something hurting in his chest when he heard it from John. _It’s impossible,_ he thought. He’d learnt since Primary to accept and not reject them. That they weren’t calling him names, only saying what they think he was. Even though at first they caused his eyes to go all blurry, he’d learnt to tune them out. Mute them. He taught himself it and he never told Mycroft about it. He was everything they call him, he supposed – a freak, a psychopath, an idiot and some words he couldn’t find in the dictionary included – and he let them call him whatever they think suit. So it left him wondering why John’s words stirred something he didn’t like feeling in him. His words weren’t any different. 

And John wasn’t acting, he knew that now. Sherlock was thoroughly baffled when John had actually listened to him, _really_ listened, when he went on to explain about the gas laws – Boyle’s and Charles’s – during Physics on Wednesday. John wasn’t pretending to be interested – Sherlock knew the difference between truly listening and not – he’d seen enough distinctive signs through his classmates during lessons. John didn’t even tell him to be quiet. Instead, he actually asked _more_ questions about it (which Sherlock was more than happy to provide answers to). John even went as far as researching about mind palaces online (he told him so). Someone pretending, he reasoned, wouldn’t go that far. At least not in his experiences with Mycroft’s many “spies”. 

He didn’t know what to make of the word “care” or “friend”. He’d never really… _why was John even asking that?_ He never really cared so much about anything, or anyone before, and he never had a friend, so he couldn’t answer that. 

_I never had a friend._

A feeling he hadn’t felt in years was threatening to return. It was an emotional response; one that he had shoved far back into the blackest corners of his mind ever since he could remember. A human’s natural response that he refused to acknowledge no matter how much it gnawed at him from the inside: loneliness. As so many had called him, he was a loner and he knew that. He embraced that. But somehow, John’s presence in the past few days had given him something he thought wasn’t possible: a companion. Someone he could talk to. Someone who actually _wanted_ to talk to him. It was strange, really, to see John came over just because he’d called in sick… no one ever does that before. Not even the students Mycroft bribed. 

_“I don’t give a damn what they say about you, Sherlock.”  
“…I truly think of you as a friend.”_

Maybe John Watson was a freak too.  
Just like him. 

Sherlock shook his head. _No, no, no, you idiot,_ he thought, berating himself. _John is nothing like you._ John fits naturally into crowds, unlike him. He befriended almost everyone in the class, and they liked him. He has a friendly air about him, and he smiles all the time. That was what Sherlock noticed. He smiles a lot. But sometimes he noticed too, that they never reach his eyes. 

_“I don’t have to pretend to be friendly or_ fucking _smile all the time as if everything’s okay.”_

Sherlock flinched at the clarity of the furious tone, and twisted in his seat, almost expecting to see John standing behind him. He wasn’t there, of course. It was only from his memory. 

_“I don’t give a damn what they say about you, Sherlock.”_

_That’s because you don’t know me, John._

_“I truly don’t, but you obviously don’t believe that, do you?’_

_I don’t. Because there’s no way someone like you would like being around someone like me._

_I’m not like the ugly duckling who eventually found the beautiful swans who could accept him. Even then, they only accepted him because he’d transformed into a beautiful swan, just like them._ But Sherlock knew he’d never find anyone like that. He wouldn’t grow any differently or change his character just so that he could fit into the normal society; therefore he knew no one would be able to accept his differences.

_I’m someone who shouldn’t have been born. A disappointment to my parents. I scare them._

Sherlock’s palms were clammy, and his hands trembled visibly. Cursing, he clenched them tightly into balls by his sides. He hated it when it happens. Suddenly, the room felt too small, too warm and he found himself struggling to breathe. The silence was suddenly too loud that they rang in his ears. 

Sherlock left Mycroft’s bedroom.

***

John Watson finally woke up a little after nine. Saturdays were the only day in a week that his grandparents allowed him to wake up late. Any other day, it was six on the dot. Yawning and stretching under the blanket, he could hear distant murmuring from the television downstairs, but none from his grandparents. Maybe his grandfather was in the study. He stayed in bed a little longer, staring at the ceiling. He felt like he ought to remember something, something that had gone wrong, but he couldn’t quite remember what.

Then, he shot up straight in his bed, his eyes wide. A tight knot formed in his stomach, wrenching and pulling at it in dread. 

‘Oh my God…’ he muttered under his breath. ‘ _Jesus_ … no.’

Unwillingly, his mind had drifted back to yesterday after school. Everything that happened – was it real? _Did I really do that?_ He remembered the anger that poisoned his mind, the anger that drove him to… to _shout_ at Sherlock, calling him _things_ , in _his_ house, with his _parents_ downstairs. _Oh god, his parents._ He’d even left with _slamming_ the door behind him! His hands rubbed harshly at his face, feeling it turning warmer and warmer. It certainly wasn’t from the friction. 

_How embarrassing._

He’d let emotions control him and now that the anger had ebbed away, he was starting to regret everything he said. No doubt Sherlock hated him for saying such things to his face. 

‘I am such an idiot,’ he muttered, shaking his head. 

Slipping off the bed, he showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved V-neck t-shirt before heading down. He saw that the woman on television was addressing an empty living room, and he made way for the kitchen.

‘You’re up late.’

‘And you left the television on,’ John replied. 

‘Oh hush, I’m just gone to refill the tea pot. I’m coming back there.’

John laughed lightly as he pulled out the bread. ‘Morning, grandma.’ 

She smiled warmly at him, watching him work. ‘Want me to fix you something?’

‘No, I’m good. I think I can fix some toasts on my own.’

‘Tea?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ John said, putting two slices of bread into the toaster, then turned to see his grandmother pouring tea for him. He rushed to her side. ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’ll pour them myself.’

She pulled the teapot away from him, keeping him at arm’s length. ‘It’s not heavy, John.’

‘But your hand is still–’

‘It’s just a bit of a bruise, that’s all,’ she said, her voice tender and assuring, as she pours the tea into a cup. She put down the tea pot after she finished and patted her grandson’s damp hair. ‘Don’t worry about me too much, John. All right?’

John didn’t smile, and he felt the hand leaving his head. The breads were still toasting, so he busied himself with pulling out the butter.

‘John,’ he heard his name being called, but didn’t turn around. He knew what she’ll ask him. ‘We’re staying _there_ until Monday. Are you sure you don’t want to come along?’

He breathed in, forced a smile on his face, and turned around to face her. ‘No, I’m fine. I can’t afford to skip school days, grandma. First week of school and they already gave out assignments to us.’ It was a lie, but he hoped she wouldn’t ask anymore. 

‘John, if you–’

‘I’ll be fine, grandma,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Really.’

She gave him a smile too, but it looked sad to him. Only after she left did he allowed the smile to drop and his eyes to flood with tears. They nearly fell, but he wiped them off with the back of his arm. 

_Damn it, John._

***

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets as he neared the dining room, and saw a glimpse of his father sitting at the end of the table. He was unsure of whether or not he should have breakfast now, with his parents. He didn’t want them questioning the tremors in his hands. Because then the question would branch into things like going to the doctor for a check up or anxiety disorders’ symptoms. He didn’t like talking about such things. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck despite the cool air. He didn’t know why it was prolonged this time. It usually only happens when he is forced to go through something he didn’t want, like the breakfast yesterday. Or earlier, thinking about… what a disappointment he was to his family. It should be gone now that he was no longer thinking about it. Or was he really not?

He wiped off the dampness with his hand and returned it into his pocket. _Maybe I should skip breakfast for now. I’ll eat something later._ He had only retreated two steps back when he heard his name being called. 

‘Sherlock?’ 

It was his father. 

‘Where are you going?’

Sherlock lick his lips, his mouth parched. ‘I’m just going upstairs for a bit.’ His voice was croaky. 

‘No, no. Come and sit down.’

Very reluctantly, Sherlock stepped into the dining room. A flash of yesterday’s pancake and his abrupt leave flashed before his eyes for a second, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The way his mother had looked at him… how _scared_ she was of him. 

‘What’s wrong?’ his father asked. Sherlock opened his eyes. He must’ve hovered for too long in the doorway. 

‘Nothing.’

He circled the table, and took the seat beside his father. The man had the morning paper in his hands, and his face was obscured by it. His mother was still moving about in the kitchen, metal clinking against ceramic. The smell of fried food wafted in the air. His stomach demanded food, yet his mind repelled it, though he knew he needed it. That was the only reason he agreed to come down at all. He didn’t come down for dinner last night, and had ignored the lunch his mother gave him. Which means he hadn’t ate anything in the last twenty-four hours, the last thing he ate being those burnt and too sweet chocolate chip pancakes yesterday morning. 

He wasn’t hungry during lunch. And as for the dinner, he knew that it would be much too asphyxiating for him. Or more specifically, for him and his mother. The short time in between yesterday’s breakfast and dinner was far too short to mend off any gaucheness between them. He knew how it’d be – clipped conversations, uncomfortable pauses, eyes suddenly finding the silverware or the food to be more interesting and worst of all, forced smiles – so he skipped it.

Sherlock looked back and forth between the spoon and fork already laid out on the table, placed on either sides of where the plate would be. They were both vertical to him, and he pushed the fork slightly, so that it was slanted in order. He left the spoon as it was. Then his eyes scanned the front page of the newspaper his father was holding. Something politic. _Not interested._ His father was already halfway through it. 

‘Anything interesting?’ he asked, hoping to distract his mind to something else. 

Mr Holmes chuckled, knowing exactly what he meant. ‘There’s been a murder in Camden, a woman killed and her daughter gone missing–’

‘Hm.’

‘Then there’s another where the police found a body in a plastic bag–’

‘Where?’

‘Um…’ Mr Holmes went back to the page, having forgotten the location. ‘Forest Hill.’

‘Oh.’

Mr Holmes lowered the paper to look at him, not missing the disappointed tone in his voice. ‘You are looking for something, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘No. I was just… it’s nothing.’

Mr Holmes gave him a dubious look, but otherwise said nothing. He returned to the paper just as his mother came in with two plates. She set one down for his father and then one for him. Sherlock avoided looking at her directly and hoped she wouldn’t sit down with them. Only, of course, she would. She entered the kitchen again and returned with her own plate. Naturally, she took the seat opposite his. 

‘Stop staring at your food, Sherlock. Eat up,’ his father scolded lightly, folding and putting the paper aside. Sherlock’s stomach growled at the sight of food, but he couldn’t bring himself to lift either spoon or fork. He could feel that the tremor had receded significantly, and hoped that it was passable to eat properly in front of them, but he wasn’t certain. His throat had gone dry again, but he knew better than to reach for the water. They would notice his trembling hand right away. _I shouldn’t have come down. I should’ve stayed in my room._

‘Sherlock?’ he heard his mother asked from across the table. ‘What’s wrong?’

Now they were both staring at him. _No, no. Look away._ ‘Nothing.’ 

‘Eat up, then,’ his father repeated, before taking a bite. 

Drawing his right hand out, Sherlock lowered his eyes just enough to see it without drawing attention. It was still trembling, though faintly now. The action, however, was noticed by his father. 

‘What are you doing, Sherlock?’ his father asked. Sherlock recognized the tone as concern. He craned his neck to see what it was Sherlock was looking at, but he already hid it in his pocket again. 

‘I need to go.’

‘What?’ 

Sherlock suddenly stood up then, a painful reminder, he was certain, to his mother of yesterday’s breakfast. The only difference being their seating. And the food. ‘Excuse me.’ And with that, he left the dining room, desperately trying to mute the repeated calls of his name. He needed to get out. Needed to breathe. 

Surely, his parents were wondering. 

“What’s wrong with Sherlock?”  
“What have we done?”  
“Is he angry?”

They had done nothing wrong. It was just him and his stupid self, unable to control his emotions. Emotions that were locked away, caged, were now threatening to break free and he cannot have that. Like Mycroft often said, he was never good at controlling emotions, so it’s better if he feel none at all. That was why, that was why he cannot have friends. He’s better off without anyone close. 

He needed loneliness.

‘Sherlock!’ he heard his father called after him again, as he grabbed a battered pair of old trainers. Then footsteps. But he was too slow, and Sherlock was already bolting down the street. He didn’t know where to go; he just knew that he needed to leave the house to calm down.

***

John walked on and on, from street to street until at last, he reached the only park in the surrounding neighbourhoods. The park wasn’t very large. There was a small loop of path for joggers, just enough to break a sweat, and a modest-sized children’s playground. It was the largest patch of greenery available between the blocks of houses, and children and adults alike flocked to it. It was the playground that his eyes riveted on, where a group of children were playing tag. He paused at the metal gate, watching them fondly, somewhat reminded of his own younger sister.

Feeling the familiar melancholy rising in his chest, he forced his eyes to leave the children and roamed the park instead. The park was dotted with benches. The ones near the playground were full with parents and guardians, but the benches around the lap were almost abandoned save for a couple of joggers taking a break. He continued walking around the park’s diameter, before stopping. 

John watched as a familiar figure, lanky and tall, emerged from around a street corner, crossed the street carelessly (thank god there was no car), and into the park. He wasn’t walking. He was _sprinting._ He waited, expecting someone else to appear from around the corner too, someone chasing after Sherlock, perhaps, but there was no one. Only Sherlock. His eyes returned to the boy, now sat at one of the benches at the lap. He had his back to John.

He pondered for just a moment longer before entering the park himself and walked over to the lap’s area. Ten steps away from Sherlock, he paused, suddenly unsure of what he was doing. Sherlock was most probably angry with him for what he did yesterday and he doubted Sherlock was one to accept an apology so easily. _Perhaps it’s best if I leave,_ he thought, watching Sherlock’s hunched back. John realized then that he could hear Sherlock’s breathing even from ten steps away (maybe it was just from the running) and that he was clutching at his chest as if in pain. John frowned. 

‘Sherlock?’ he called carefully, as he closed the distance between them. 

Hearing his name, Sherlock looked up. His face was red and he was sweating profusely. The back of his t-shirt was drenched. His breathing came short one after another. 

‘H-Hey, are you all right?’

Sherlock put up a hand as if to stop him from coming any closer, and gave a nod. Alarmed with Sherlock’s condition, John stood there, not quite knowing what to do. 

‘Do you need water? I can go and–’

Sherlock shook his head, and finally leant back against the back of the bench, eyes closed and his face crumpled as if in pain. His breathing was calmer, though. 

‘Sherlock, do you want me to call your parents? You don’t look well.’

Finally, he answered, somewhat weakly. ‘No, I’m fine.’ Then John watched as he slumped further into the seat and let his long legs sprawl out in front of him. He clenched and unclenched his hands, before shoving them into his trouser’s pockets. ‘You can go, John. I’ll be fine.’

‘Were you running from something?’ John asked, ignoring the dismissal. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before answering. ‘If I was running from something, or some _one_ , I wouldn’t be sitting here then, would I? Not in such an open space.’ 

‘Oh,’ John said dumbly. ‘So why were you running then?’ 

There was an annoyed huff, and Sherlock’s eyes popped open to look at him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was just… passing through and saw you and I thought you needed help, so–’

‘As you can see, I am fine, so just leave me alone.’

John blinked, surprised at the harsh tone, but he supposed he should’ve expected it. ‘Sherlock,’ he started warily, but he gave no reaction. He remained still as a statue, eyes closed once more. For all he knew, Sherlock might’ve slipped into his mind palace again.

‘Sherlock?’

Silence. 

‘Sherlock, listen, about yesterday–’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

 _Oh, so he_ was _listening._ ‘Just listen to me for a minute,’ John said. ‘I’m really sorry for everything I said yesterday, and for coming and yelling in your own house…’ John felt blood rushing to his face, and he was pretty sure he was tomato red. The next words came out jumbled out of awkwardness. ‘And I probably should apologize to your parents too. I know that you’re angry with me for saying all those things to you, and I don’t blame you, but I shouldn’t have–’

‘I’m not.’

John blinked. ‘What?’

His eyes opened again, and this time, he looked up at John. ‘I’m not angry,’ Sherlock said calmly, his voice as flat as ever and without the slightest anguish upon his features. ‘Why would I?’ Sherlock added, shrugging lazily and sliding further down the hard bench, almost reclining, his legs still stretched out in front of him. ‘You were just voicing your opinions of me. Spot on, too.’

‘ _Opinions?_ Look, I didn’t mean to–’

‘You did.’

John heaved a heavy sigh, running a hand down his face, thinking it was easier if Sherlock had just pulled a face at him and marched off the park in irritation. He didn’t know that Sherlock _did not_ , in fact, feel resentment towards him. He should have, but he didn’t. And that was… _wrong._ ‘Yes, all right. I _did_ mean them.’ 

Sherlock looked away to where a couple was taking a stroll together side by side. 

‘But I shouldn’t have said them,’ John said apologetically. 

Sherlock sniffed. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘You should.’ John was reminded of the day he had lunch with Anderson and Donovan, and how they’d unashamedly called him a “freak” and a “psychopath”. And he’d been upset with them. The things he called Sherlock yesterday, doesn’t that make him the same as them? And Sherlock accepted whatever people threw at him. As if he didn’t… feel anything. 

‘You should go home, John. I’ll see you on Monday.’ 

Again, the cold dismissal was pointedly ignored, and John’s eyes tried to catch Sherlock’s evasive ones. He shifted on the balls of his feet. ‘Maybe I _did_ mean what I said yesterday, Sherlock. It’s true, you can be cold and rude sometimes, but you’re wrong if you think that they are the only ways I view you.’

Sherlock moved a little, but said nothing, his eyes looking rather distant.

‘You were right when you said I’m not the type who makes friends easily. I’m never good at them,’ John said, with a hollow laugh. ‘But I wasn’t lying when I said I think of you as a friend. I’m not pretending to be one either. If I don’t like someone, I don’t go out of my way to visit them when they fell sick, you know.’ John gave a tight smile, watching Sherlock’s expression soften slightly. 

Sherlock’s lips moved as if to say something, but no words came out. He then went to straighten his back and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, as if bracing. His eyes refused to look up, however. They blinked twice. ‘You really don’t care what they say about me?’ he asked, voice small and almost quivering. 

‘No,’ John answered steadfastly. He wasn’t lying. 

There was a pause. ‘Aren’t you scared of me?’ 

Sherlock’s question caught him off guard, and he flinched a little at the tone. It sounded wary, as if Sherlock was afraid to know the answer, but asked it nonetheless. He didn’t fail to notice the sudden tenseness of his shoulders. ‘Why do you ask that?’

Sherlock looked down to the ground, to his lap and finally, his eyes pierced into John’s. There was an intense emotion in them that John had never seen before in Sherlock’s eyes, and it almost unnerved him to see it barely concealed. ‘Because that’s how I make everyone around me feels like, John.’

‘I’m sure that’s not–’

‘I can read it plainly in their faces. They are _frightened_ of me,’ Sherlock interrupted. ‘Even my parents are afraid of me. They don’t say it but I know they are.’ _Who aren’t afraid of a freak like me anyway?_

‘But I’m not frightened of you.’

‘That’s why I don’t understand you. _Sensible_ people would leave me alone.’

‘Is that why you push everyone away? Why you don’t like having friends?’ 

‘I’m not like you, John. You _feel_. I don’t,’ Sherlock said, his cold demeanour returning. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to, but I can’t. Mycroft, my brother, he said it’s dangerous if I feel emotions. I can’t control them, so I have to detach myself from them. It makes my mind clearer to see the things around me. You sounded surprised when I said I’m not angry with what you say yesterday. I didn’t even _know_ I was supposed to feel anger with what you said. Instead of feeling an emotion, my mind immediately captured everything you said, and broke them down into parts, processing every word and trying to make sense of them. The what’s and why’s. I just… I don’t feel, John. I can, but I chose not to because it’s difficult for me to deal with emotions, do you see? And that’s why people are afraid of me. Because I don’t feel, I react differently to situations. And my reaction scares them. At least, that’s how I see it, and I’m sure it’s true.’

A long silence passed between them. ‘But I'm not frightened of you,’ John repeated.

‘Because you don’t know me.’ _And when you do, you’ll go away like everybody else too._

‘You can be compulsive sometimes, and I think I’ve heard enough stories about you from them – I do think they were a bit exaggerating. They even warned me, but I’m still talking to you,’ John said lightly. 

Their eyes met for a split second before Sherlock stood up, hands still in pockets, and began to walk away. John strode by him. It usually annoyed him to have someone walk beside him, but it felt comfortable, somewhat. _Odd_ , he thought. 

‘Are you going home?’ John asked as they reached the gates. 

‘I just ran _from_ my house,’ Sherlock replied. ‘No, I’m going somewhere else.’ 

‘Where?’

Sherlock seemed hesitant before replying. ‘Do you need to be home early?’

The light in John’s eyes noticeably dimmed. ‘No, my grandparents are out of town. Why?’

‘Want to go somewhere?’ Sherlock asked, a mischievous smile playing upon his lips. 

Before John could answer him, he was already walking away, leaving John no choice but to follow him. 

As they walked down the street towards another to catch a bus, Sherlock swiftly took out his right hand and made sure it was out of John’s sight, before looking at it.

It had stopped trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I apologize for the extremely late update. It was finished last month, however I felt like there was something missing in it. So I had to re-write this chapter and edited several parts. Nevertheless, I am truly sorry for anyone who waited for an update.

**Author's Note:**

> "Secondary school" is another term for "high school". I used the term "secondary school", because through a little research, I found that it's the common term to be used in England. Not to mention my country uses the same term. Sherlock starting his third year (called third form/year 9) of secondary school would put his age at 14.


End file.
